Victor
A year later
I lean against the studio wall with my arms crossed over my chest as I watch the stagehands unplug my beautiful wife from her microphone. It's a good thing they're disconnecting her because a hot mic might not be a good idea with what I have planned for us back in her dressing room.
“Let me help you, Mrs. Cross," Erika's assistant, Abby, says as she offers Erika her hand.
My laughter fills the emptying set as Erika kicks off her shoes and lets Abby help her stand. At nearly eight and a half months pregnant, she's made no bones about her hatred of the f*****g heels. While I can understand her discomfort, I admit that imagining her and nothing but four-inch heels makes my boxer briefs strain under my trousers—even with her ever-growing midsection.
If I think about
